


Hearts in Halamshiral

by Hirrient



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action, Age Difference, F/F, F/M, M/M, Romance, dont pretend the inquisitor jumping on furniture isn't canon, in almost all social settings, in fact dont pretend the inquisitor isn't just constantly inappropriate, some angst but i hope not exceeding your daily dose!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9078790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hirrient/pseuds/Hirrient
Summary: ‘I don’t know how I ever thought she’d take me seriously!’ Trevelyan exploded, and tugged out of Dorian's arm to pace up and down in snowballing fury. ‘She’s so beautiful, and refined, and elegant, and clever—’‘And more than a decade older than you,’ Dorian pointed out.‘Exactly! And I’m just a childish tree-trunk with legs who gets mistaken for a half grown man. Dorian, how was I supposed to have won her heart?’‘Well, I can think of a few ways,’ he ventured, ‘but I’ll have to tell you when you’re older.’
Set during the events of the Wicked Eyes & Wicked Hearts quest of Inquisition (with a little au of Fenris having joined the Inquiz after Hawke's death.) 
Trevelyan lacks grace when it comes to romancing the older Antivan Ambassedor. Jumping on palace furniture probably doesn't help. Dorian maintains Everything Is Okay despite working with Fenris, his childhood love who neither remembers him, nor likes him. Meanwhile, Varric's only problem is a potentially crushed pelvis. Though better that than a heart, right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is taken from chap 6 of a full length Dorian/Fenris work in progress fiction I was writing a year ago with a partner that sadly we did not finish. Regardless, I think these brief parts stand alone quite nicely and I really wanted to share something from that project!! 
> 
> *PSA If your curious as to why Cass is referred to as Commander in this, its because in the origional fic, poor Cullen didn't get his A+ in Survival School (Goodnight Sweet Prince).

 

 

Hearts in Halamshiral

 

 

‘So this is _Halamshiral_ ,’ Fenris murmured more to himself than anyone. They had crested the hill, taking first sight of the sprawling city cast in dying sunrays. ‘Once a free city of Elves, meaning—’

‘ _The end of the journey_ ,’ Cole finished in his wavering, far-away voice. ‘The floors are soaked in blood. They fall in shadows, not knowing who, nor why. I—I don’t like it.’

‘Cole is right,’ Josephine said, pulling up her white mare alongside Trevelyan. Lines of worry were set in her face. ‘The Game is deadly. All of us must proceed with upmost caution, and you, most of all, Inquisitor.’

‘So you’ve told me,’ Trevelyan smiled, sitting up straight in her saddle. ‘More than ten times now. But I never tired of hearing your lovely voice, Lady Montilyet.’

Trevelyan had not been merely flattering Josephine. In fact, she’d been throwing compliments the Ambassador’s way since they’d met. It was funny, sort of, watching this gangly girl play grown-up. The Inquisitor was blessed with many things, but a skill in diplomatic dealings was not one. One minute she’d be chasing Sera through Skyhold’s muddy courtyard with a garden hose. The next—when spying the dark Antivan beauty walking the battlements—she’d straighten, brush out the wrinkles and muddy clods from her dripping tunic, and begin throwing around large words that never meant what she thought they meant.

So, when the Inquisition was converging at the gates of the Winter Place, Trevelyan hissed softly under her breath when the Ambassador stepped down from out of a carriage.

Everyone was in formal uniform that allowed for a soldier’s practicality should the need arise. Everyone, that was, but for Josephine. Purely a diplomat, she was more at advantage putting nobles at ease rather than projecting militant strength. This meant wearing a dark green glittering dress of sea green that made her golden skin somehow light up and glow like a star. The Ambassador’s hair was down, too, for the first time. Her long tresses of dark thick curls spilled over her slender shoulders and the swell of her breasts. Her every movement under the moonlight was graceful, like a swan gliding across a lake.

All her life, Trevelyan had never seen anything so…so enviably _beautiful_. And not just enviably: Josephine held all the appeal to Treveylan as a beautiful doll had to a little girl. But no girl had ever looked at her doll like Trevelyan looked at how the dress stretched over Josephine’s curves.

‘Inquisitor?’ Josephine asked, taking her hand, suddenly concerned. ‘What is it? Are you alright?’

Gone were the large words, the bravado, the smooth talking. Trevelyan was rendered helplessly, totally inept by this beauty.

‘I won’t let anything happen to you,’ Josephine promised, misreading it as sudden stage fright. Within seconds she collapsed into a fit of fussing. Pulling at Trevelyan’s tunic here, brushing it out across her shoulders there, scratching off some— _what, apple cake_?—with a long manicured nail.

‘Oh, but am I doing the right thing?’ the ambassedor breathed, all the while. ‘It’s so cruel of me, throwing you to the Orlesians. How _can_ I? And it was my idea—’ But Josephine caught herself, and clenched her fist and took a deep breath. ‘Look at me. Like a mother hen. No. I do not doubt your ability. I want you to know that I have complete confidence in you, My Lady.’

That sounded unconvincing to say the least. Josephine took Trevelyan’s hand and gave her one more concerned look over, smiling at the total effect, murmuring, ‘but you look so terribly handsome.’

‘Jose—’ Trevelyan began, finally managing to find her voce. But the now totally flustered Ambassador put up her hand, as though, protectively.

‘Maker,’ she said, ‘Let us proceed before I become even more of a mess.’

***

 

 

‘ _Josephine! Oh, Josephine, is it her?_ ’

Trevelyan’s heart sank when she met Gabriella Montilyet for two reasons. The first was that the girl, who seemed so young, was only the same age as Trevelyan herself. The second was that it could have been Trevelyan standing there instead, babbling just as excitably with the same wild suppositions, and nothing in Josephine’s behaviour would have been different.

_She only thinks of me like a little sister_ , Trevelyan realised, feeling her stomach plunge, and two spots of pink indignation flushing in her cheeks. She thinks I’m a _helpless little fool, who needs protecting. Well I’m not. I’m not a child. I’m not your sister, Josephine._

‘Dance with me, Lady Montilyet,’ Trevelyan found herself blurting. Josephine’s eyes snapped to Trevelyan’s in sudden surprise.

‘I…’ the Ambassador looked around her. At all the eyes that were pretending not to be watching, but awaited her answer. ‘How could I refuse, Inquisitor?’

Trevelyan knew she could only have been the envy of every man in the ball as she led the dark beauty to the floor. She knew she was as puffed up as a rooster, but it all deflated the second the music began. Trevelyan was _not_ a dancer.

‘I’ll lead,’ Josephine whispered after an embarrassing hesitation, taking command and pushing Trevelyan’s hand up from her _very nice_ waist, onto her shoulder. The beauty kept shooting little furtive glances around them. Her body was so tense under Trevelyan’s touch.

‘What is it?’ Trevelyan asked, looking around but not seeing anything out of the usual.

‘Nothing, Inquisitor,’ Josephine said too formally.

‘Stop calling me that,’ Trevelyan laughed, pulling the little woman closer and breathing in the plunging burnt scents of ambergris, ylang ylang, lemon and bergamot that rolled off the peaks of Josephine’s breasts. ‘Aren’t I more than just the Inqisitor to you? Would you like me to call you _Ambassador_ all night?’

‘Perhaps you should,’ Josephine answered a little too curtly, pulling back away.

_What?_

Caught by the sudden hit of rejection, Trevelyan lost track of their steps and in overcompensation, stumbled and stomped Josephine’s tiny slippered foot under her heavy boot. The woman, determined as ever not to make a scene, flew her hand to her mouth to silence her yelp, trying her best to bear her pain in controlled silence.

‘I’m fine, keep dancing,’ she assured with tears in her eyes, pushing Trevelyan’s assistance back and trying valiantly to dance on.

It was ridiculous. She couldn’t.

Her face was contorting with real pain and humiliation, not easily masked to Trevelyan who had studied it so carefully through the months with the fevor that an artist’s apprentice studied a masterpiece. Trevelyan felt awful and clumsy and…

_Fuck it,_ and _fuck the Orlesians._

Trevelyan couldn’t dance for shit. She wasn’t dainty, she wasn’t smooth, but she had a strong body, and she took charge. She slid her arms around Josephine, scooped her up into them, and carried the stunned woman from the floor.

‘What— _What are you doing_? Inquisitor— _put me down_ ,’ Josephine stammered, her eyes wide and her face flushing. But Trevelyan ignored the stares and Josephine’s increasingly flustered protests, carrying her up the stairs, through the vestibule, and didn’t obey her pleas until they were out in the garden. Trevelyan sat Josephine onto a stone garden bench and dropped to a knee. She took the woman’s swollen ankle in hand, and gently slipping off her slipper.

‘ _Are you completely clueless_?’ Josephine exploded. Exploded, as much as she could, when restricting it to a low hiss from out of the corner of her mouth, and with a face thinly masked with the last shreds of composure. Trevelyan had never seen her looking so livid. She cringed back like she’d been cut in half by the lash of Josephine’s tongue.

‘All night I’ve had to fend off reports of you running around the garden, climbing on furniture, but now this?’ the woman continued. She let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. ‘Well, certainly the Orlesian’s no longer want to kill you at least, Inquisitor. No, not now they have such an entertaining jester. And I, made a total fool now too in front of _everyone_. Perhaps you should carry me back inside for a second parade, to make doubly sure not one person missed out on the pleasure of a good laugh—’

But on seeing Trevelyan’s pain, the ire melted from Josephine’s voice and she stopped dead. ‘Oh— _no_ ,’ she whispered gently, eyes widening, reaching for Trevelyan’s hand. ‘Forgive me, my lady, it’s _my_ fault. I just… _never_ should have brought you here.’

That was so much worse. To hear her voice, so musical, now ringing with notes of pain. Guilt. Disappointment.

Shame.

‘Lady Montilyet, how is your foot,’ asked a courtly lady on approach. Her voice was honeyed so thickly with fake concern, even Trevelyan could see the mockery in it. _Just making it clear, darling,_ _you’re not even a contender in the Game,_ the woman was really saying. _I needn’t even try to act sincere._

‘It is quite improved, Lady Bellamy,’ Josephine answered in perfect civility, shining all the more beautiful in Trevelyan’s eyes for it.

_Bellamy_ , Trevelyan noted feeling venomous. There was a name she’d be passing on to Leliana.

‘What a _romantic_ display,’ the lady continued with a smirk. ‘Orlesians simply adore the dramatic, though I think it was less to _Lord Ortranto’s_ tastes. Oh, but I see an old friend, pardon me.’

‘Lord Ortranto?’ Trevelyan asked, seeing Josephine now going from the extreme of _flushed as a beetroot_ , to deathly pale.

But Josephine shook her head resolutely. ‘You have more important matters to attend to, tonight.’

‘Who is Lord Ortranto, Josephine?’

But Josephine either did not want to respond, or couldn’t.

‘Fine,’ Trevelyan sighed, climbing to her feet, accepting defeat.

The Inquisitor took only a little angry delight when she climbed the garden trellis in full sight of everyone, imagining Jose explaining _that_ one away.

***

 

 

The Inquisitor found Dorian and Fenris in the palace library. The rather unlikely pair of investigators were swaying a little as they fumbled through papers on tables like clammy, grabby children.

‘Are you both drunk?’ she asked, as Fenris’s hand slipped off the edge of the table and his forehead became intimately aquainted with the timber.

‘You know, forget I asked. Found anything interesting?’

‘Interesting?’ Dorian pretended to think, and snatched for a nearby bookshelf to steady himself upright. ‘One almost murdered elven spy, now safe,’ he counted, ‘A few venatori, now dead, oh, and Fenris’s company. Still, two out of three isn’t bad.’

Fenris scowled.

The bookshelf lurched under Dorian’s weight and spilled twelve shelves of books onto the floor before he managed to right it again.

‘That explains the blood,’ Trevelyan said. ‘Now I get why we went with red for the uniforms. The bells are calling us back, but I’m heading to the servants quarters as soon as I can slip away from the ball again.’

‘And I’m going with you, I hope you realise,’ Dorian said. ‘We saw it ourselves. Venatori are swarming down there, there are bodies everywhere.’

Trevelyan couldn’t help but smile. Her friend was to be as insistently protective as usual.

‘I, too,’ Fenris said folding his arms across his chest and pacing the room darkly, not realising the whole effect was ruined somewhat by a bit of parchment stuck to his foot. ‘The elven spy told us of Briala. I’d know more of this resistance of hers.’

_‘At least he’ll be somewhere I can keep an eye on him,’_ Cole murmured, appearing from out behind a bookshelf.

It took a few minutes of profuse apologizing to Cole, and him assuring her that the enormous wallop she’d given him to the forehead in surprise _didn’t even hurt me like it hurts you,_ Trevelyan reflected that his usually cryptic words had been a reading of her thoughts regarding Dorian, and also probably Fenris too.

She didn’t consider it was what they had been both thinking about each other.

***

 

Josephine was sitting exactly where Trevelyan had left her. Probably not so much by her own desire, but because she couldn’t walk.

‘Leliana sent word that you wanted to talk to me?’ Trevelyan said, knowing she sounded more sulky and surly like an overtired child, but not really caring either.

Josephine Montiliyet let out a long shaky sigh. ‘Help me somewhere private,’ she said, ‘and fetch me wine. A lot of wine.’

***

 

‘Otranto is your _what_?’ Trevelyan exclaimed.

No, this wasn’t a thing that was happening. Josephine Montiliyet, beautiful Josephine Montiliyet, _her_ Josephine Montiliyet—

_Engaged_.

‘Do you see now,’ Josephine said, throwing back her wineglass and draining it in one. ‘I was to meet him for the first time, tonight. When you asked me to dance…well, I couldn’t be seen to publically snub my Inquisitor. A dance out of _professional_ friendliness, oh, but then you— _why did you—_ Do you know what people must think now? Us… you and I, that _we_ …’

Trevelyan _tried_ to brush off how deeply uncomfortable Josephine sounded with the idea of the two of them. She really did try.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘It wasn’t a secret,’ Josephine said. ‘It just wasn’t… important. We are here to stop an _assassination_.’

‘Wasn’t important?’ Trevelyan repeated. Was she _that_ little of a contender for this woman’s affections?

‘Do you even like this Otranto?' Trevelyan sniffed. 'Do you love him?’

‘Love him?’ Clearly, Josephine was trumped by a leftfield question. ‘Love has little to do with a marriage that will strengthen a noble house. I do believe some are lucky enough to find love…but I am not young, Inquisitor, and I have responsibilities to my house. In Antiva, I will be practically in scandal if I remain unwed much longer. You still have so many years of beauty and youth before you. I’m not surprised it would be difficult for you to understand, but my choices are limited. I _will_ marry Lord Otranto for love, but for love of my family.’

And then, like anything she did, Trevelyan didn’t think. Her body could simply hold back no longer. Led by the heart, she surged forward, wrapped Josephine up in her arms, and brought her mouth down on those full lips. For one moment, the little woman seemed to melt into her—like a whole body sigh of relief.

For one moment, Josephine Montilyet kissed her back.

For one perfect moment, only, and then it was over. Josephine was pushing her back to stare up at her with wide shocked eyes and ruined lipstick.

‘I—I cannot be doing this…Not now!’ she stammered. ‘What can you be meaning?’ Josephine was limping a step back, and then another. ‘No—don’t tell me—I… _forgive me_ —this can _never_ be.’

***

 

 

Dorian’s Inquisitor had walked past him in the garden, white faced, stricken, not even seeing him until he reached out and caught her arm.

‘Let’s go,’ she simply said.

Ten minutes later, and it was all going to shit.

_We are heavily outnumbered._

Those are the words that the swathes of Venatori might have conjured, locking up Dorian’s body in fear, had he time to actually think. Fortunately, thinking was the sort of thing reserved for times like drinking and long nights of not sleeping. Fighting, on the other hand, was the time for getting showered in blood, seeing what the inside of men looked like, and the sheer miracle of recalling spells you didn’t know you knew right before you got yourself sliced in half.

Dorian watched on in abject horror at his own magic as the Venatori crumpled to the ground, body folding in on its self like a crushed tin, blood spraying, and sobbing for death in strangled crushed gurgles. That was close. Too close, and it wouldn’t have been if Fenris had just been watching his own damn left.

Then, ironically, ‘ _Watch your back—_ ’

Fenris sailed past Dorian: body entirely possessed by a powerful grace and not all the unsteady swaying of a drunkard, which had seemingly dissipated with no trace. His sword seemed to barely flicker, and a decapitated head sailed over Dorian’s shoulder. It landed at his feet, staring up at him in transfixed horror. Mouth and jelly eyeballs twitching.

_Just reflex,_ Dorian told himself firmly, fighting down his nausea. _He’s dead, and it’s just a physiological reflex._

‘Stand back, mage—’ Fenris yelled back to him, giving him a sharp shove away from the heart of the fray. ‘Stop getting in my way!’

‘I would if you _bloody well—_ ’ but already the elf was off in another charge, like a blue shooting star streaking the field behind him with a red tail of blood.

Dorian couldn’t track Fenris and Trevelyan _both_ as they ran off doing their own things; the elf like a blooded hound, the girl more like a pup, distracted by anything shiny and moving. Both reckless, both each as unlikely to stop and think to thank him later for picking off the swords at their backs. And Cole was barely visible half the time, sprouting from nowhere, turning _man_ to _pincushion_ , and disappearing like a shadow again. That was even worse when you’re throwing around a thing like fire and trying to hit the right people with it. Fire didn’t _like_ being told what to do at the best of times, and at the moment, Dorian understood it, really: he felt like hurting people and he wasn’t quite sure they were all on the other side.

‘I can’t work like this!’ he exclaimed in the din of battle.

Enter: Cassandra. Seemingly, out of nowhere. Bellowing, charging, oh _wonderful_. Dorian threw up his arms.

‘Well why not?’ he yelled. ‘No one else cares about tactics, by all means, join in, let’s all let Dorian watch their backs. Dorian won’t mind! What would we ever do without him? So incredibly talented and handsome—’

He thwacked his staff down on the helmet of a Venitori with a resounding _dong_ of ringing metal, and sent a lightning cage to draw off three Ventori from Trevelyan and Fenris’ backs.

‘Dorian can take care of himself—‘

A bolt shot past his face and slammed into the chest of a Venatori, who’s sword fell from his hand, a fraction from Dorian’s face.

‘But I’ll stick around, just in case,’ said Varric, from out of nowhere, taking his next aim.

***

 

‘We were loosing, I hope you all realised,’ Dorian snapped once the Venatori were little more than sauce. ‘A little teamwork wouldn’t have gone amiss.’

He was glaring at Fenris. He wouldn’t forgive the elf for taking such reckless openings in the fight. His heart had nearly stopped ten times.

‘Had Cassandra and Varric not shown up when they had—‘

‘And what were you two doing here anyway,’ Trevelyan asked, wiping blood from her forehead. ‘Weren’t you waiting on my signal, Commander?’

Cassandra hissed and shot a filthy look at Varric who winked back in the way he’d perfected to vex her most, after months of avid research.

‘I needed to stretch my legs,’ she admitted, guiltily. If she were a Mabari, she’d be cringing right now, with ears flat to her head and tail tittering. ‘I couldn’t take it for a moment longer in that stuffy ballroom. I _hate_ pomp, and Varric—‘

‘—Thinks we should move on before they notice us all gone,’ Varric finished, ‘as much as I do love telling a compelling story.’ 

***

 

‘ _What_ , Varric’ Cassandra snapped, a little later when they were taking pause after another onslaught of Venatori. ‘Why are you staring at me.’

‘If I was staring, Commander, it was into space.’

Cassandra rolled her eyes and turned away, shifting uncomfortably.

‘Relax,’ Varric murmured. ‘You look good.’ He caught sight of Dorian, who watched them, and folded his arms across his chest. ‘You know, for someone covered in blood and entrails.’

Cassandra took sight of Dorian too. She quickly rolled her eyes and pulled a face of disgust. A face of disgust with faintly blooming cheeks. Varric couldn’t quite meet Dorian’s eye after that, and busied himself by helping the Inquisitor position halla statuettes in a particularly secure looking door that promised something interesting within. And by _helping_ , it was Varric prizing the hallas from Trevelyan’s hands, who was momentarily lost in galloping them through the air.

Inside were shiny things. Trevelyan was rummaging through draws and leafing through objects with mad focus, faster than Dorian took to wine.

‘Is she investigating, or burglarizing?’ Fenris asked doubtfully, watching as Trevelyan stuffed her pockets with knickknacks.

‘Broody, we just find it easier not to ask that question in the first place,’ Varric answered. ‘What have you found there, Pockets?’

Trevelyan was staring down at it, a mix of surprise and confusion on her face. Dorian, curious, came by her and looked down over her shoulder.

It was a locket, split open to reveal it’s secret treasure: a tiny painted portrait of an elven woman. Briala.

‘They were in love,’ the Inquisitor murmured.

‘A human in love with an elf? Scandalous,’ Dorian quipped. _Too_ cavalier. _Don’t look at him. Don’t do it, Dorian._ ‘She might still be,’ he added, keeping his eyes fixed down. ‘If Celene’s kept it all this time—Hello, what’s this?’

He picked it up from the same drawer and smoothed his hands over it. It was a crystal. At his touch, it began to glow, and hum.

‘How could you do it?’ A sudden voice cracked out of the crystal. A woman’s voice, thickened with an accent, and practically choked with emotion. It was hard to say what it was. Fury? Betrayal? But…defeat too.

‘Burning the entire alienage,’ she continued. ‘Burning them alive. There were _children_ in those flames.’

‘I did it for Orlais, Briala.’ Now it was unmistakably Celene’s voice. ‘These are concessions I make for peace. There was no choice.’

‘No choice, perhaps,’ Briala said. ‘But have the decency to regret.’

‘I do not,’ Celene said. ‘Not those lives. But _you_ —‘

‘Don’t touch me,’ Briala spat. ‘Those lives were one thing, but you threw _me_ to the wolves just the same, you burned _me_. You made your choice. Orlais. Enjoy living with it, Celene, and see how She thanks you when She lays knives in your bed and I am gone.’

The crystal cut out, and the vault was filled with silent shock. 

‘Children turned to ash, screaming but with no voices,’ Cole wailed, clutching his head. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘And why did no one tell me this?’ Trevelyan demanded, flinching from Cole’s words. ‘Leliana, Josephine—they must have known—’

‘—Don’t be an idiot,’ Fenris cut across. ‘Would it change anything? _Justice for elves._ ’ He laughed at the concept. Bitterly. ‘Even Briala didn’t care about them—only that she was personally affected. What help is it that you to know? So you can support a worthier monarch? The question isn’t _if_ Gaspard has caused a like suffering, but only _how, when,_ to _who_. There is no ruler without blood soaked hands.’

With that, Fenris, as though unable to stand the confines of neither the vault nor the company for a moment longer, strode out.

‘Broody—tactful though he is— is right, Pockets,’ Varric said gently, laying his hand on her arm. ‘You try and choose the _right_ side, do the _good_ thing—’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It burns you no matter what.’

Dorian watched Trevelyan’s enraged face as she looked between them all and the crystal. One day soon she wouldn’t be appalled by the world any more. She wouldn’t have the energy. The hope. _Let me shield her,_ Dorian silently begged his Maker. _Let me lift this weight from her._

 

Minutes later and the bells were calling them back. Dorian found Fenris leaning in the hall outside, brow knitted together in storming thoughts, with shoulders dropped.

‘You're disappointed in Briala,’ Dorian realised. How was it that even now, even so altered, he could read that body language?

‘And can you believe it?’ Fenris snorted. ‘I was an idiot. Hoping. Hah. Just for something better. Even after everything I’ve known and seen. No one strong cares about the weak.’

 ‘You do,’ Dorian said. Fenris jerked his face to Dorian and a shadow of something passed across it. Just for a flicker, like light playing in candle flames. He gritted his jaw, shook his head, and turned, striding off. He took so many as five steps ballroom-bound, and halted. Hesitated. Back still turned, the only indication that his words were spoken back to Dorian was the slightest jerk of his head to the side. 

‘I’m not strong.’ A low murmer only. And then he was gone.

_The things you’ve seen,_ Dorian thought. _The things you’ve survived. Who could be stronger than you?_

‘Where’s Cole?’ Trevelyan’s voice called out, her head popping out from around the corner of the Vault. ‘Cole? Cole! Did you see him Dorian? We have to go back, I don’t have time to be searching for him—‘

‘I’ll look for the kid,’ Varric assured. ‘I’ll catch up with you.’

‘I will stay also, and search for any more evidence we may have missed,’ Cassandra added, a little too hastily for Dorian’s senses, but not for Trevelyan— a truly artless creature—who only nodded, mind already racing to the next thing.

 

***

 

‘Now that we have a moment, are you going to tell me what you’ve been sulking so theatrically over for half the night?’ Dorian asked. He’d taken Trevelyan by her arm, rescued her from social assassination on all sides by nobles, and steered her out into the garden. ‘It wouldn’t have something to do with that icy cold chill I felt rolling off you and the Ambassador just before?’

‘I don’t know how I ever thought she’d take me seriously!’ Trevelyan exploded, and tugged out of his arm to pace up and down in snowballing fury. ‘She’s so beautiful, and refined, and elegant, and clever—’

‘And more than a decade older than you,’ he pointed out.

‘Exactly! And I’m just a childish tree-trunk with legs who gets mistaken for a half grown man. Dorian, how was I supposed to have won her heart?’

‘Well, I can think of a few ways,’ he ventured, ‘but I’ll have to tell you when you’re older.’

Trevelyan pouted, her mood unable to be lifted an inch. ‘You all think I’m a child.’

‘And so easily when you make that face. What are those?’

Trevelyan was flicking _shiny things_ into a fountain, one after the other, trying to skim them across the water.

‘These?’ She held out a Caprice coin. ‘Oh…I just found them around the place. I just thought they were pretty.’

_Of course you did._

‘Well keep doing it,’ he said, noticing the little approving glances it was drawing from some of the guests. They thought she was finally showing a shred of acumen for Orlesian class. Little did they know she just wanted to see if she could make the _shiny thing bounce on the pretty water three times._

‘Dorian—’ she began, and hesitated, nibbling on her lip. ‘This talk. All about myself. So stupid, when _you_ …’ The way she was suddenly looking at him now…the hairs on his neck stood on end. ‘Are _you_ …’

_Okay?_

It was like all of the sudden he was back in Haven and the mountainside was surging down toward him with the promise of annihilation. He was barely held together, and that unspoken word, uttered aloud, could shatter him entirely to pieces.

‘— _Please don’t_ —’ he panicked, words cutting off hers coming out more unhinged and cold that he’d meant to. She looked at first surprised, and then down into her hands, rebuffed and embarrassed.

He reached out and touched his hand to her cheek, regaining his composure. He laid a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his, speaking softer this time. ‘Just... don’t ask me. Not that. Please.’

The tremble in his voice laid him bare to her.

The girl searched his face. She closed her hand on his and pulled it into her warm clasp, giving it a squeeze. He needed that more than he could ever admit. Her tacit assurances of affection. Her total unquestioning acceptance.

It was treasure worth dying for.

‘Besides,’ he said, forcing his tone into cheer. ‘I can’t have my favorite girl bested by some Antivan prick. You know, in their country, this could all be solved with swords. You’d be far better at that then all this Orlesian pomp. You simply challenge the twat to a duel, draw a little blood, get the girl and call it a day.’

Dorian realised his mistake the second he saw Trevelyan’s eyes light up.

‘Not that I’m suggesting that,’ he added hastily.

But it was too late. Far too late.

Quick as fadestep and slippery as a fish, she kissed his cheek and ducked away in through the doors to the ball. He lunged out to grab her but his hands closed only on thin air.

_Dorian, old fellow,_ he thought, watching her scamper off, jumping courtyard benches like hurdles. _What have you done?_

In less than five minutes, Dorian found himself breathless from a mad dash to find the Ambassador. He cut in to the group of conversing nobles with no time for proper dignities. ‘Excuse me, Josephine? A word? If I may? _Now?_ ’

*******

 

‘I thought we’d never get away,’ Varric sighed with a low laugh. ‘I’ve never killed Venatori so fast.’

_Varric is scared_ , Cole realised. The two occupants to the room couldn’t see Cole, but he was curious, observant, tugged to them by instinct. He tilted his head to the side, feeling the racing of the rogue’s heart like a throbbing in his ears. _But_ _Varric doesn’t get scared like this. He gets scared like… ‘this is really it, this is the big shit, this could be the end, because if it got Hawke—shit don’t think about it.’ Scared like that. Not scared like…humming under his skin, tingling on his neck, thinking too much and…not enough. Insults feeling like touches._

‘ _You_ killed them?’ Cassandra snorted. ‘I was doing all the work. _As usual_.’

 ‘I think we both know that’s unfair, Seeker’ Varric said with a wink. Cole got that feeling you got when sometimes people said one thing but actually were meaning another entirely. Cole closed his eyes and tried to listen to Varric’s mind.

He wasn’t thinking about battle. 

‘Are you sure the door is locked?’ Cassandra asked.

‘Look, locks are my thing, aren’t they?’

_Cassandra is angry_ , Cole read. _Very very angry. Always very very angry these days. It’s all she has._

‘Good,’ she said, and before Varric could do anything more than turn around, she seized him by his collar and shoved him as hard as she could. He stumbled over some crates, and crashed to the floor. Before he could react, the warrior had him pinned down under her by her powerful thighs.

‘Make a sound and I’ll kill you,’ she said quietly, leaning down close and drawing her sword just enough to show him the glint of metal in the dim light. 

‘You’re one crazy bitch,’ he gasped, winded. ‘Wait until the Inquisitor hears about this—’

‘You tell her, and I’ll ruin you, you little snake.’ Cassandra spat.

‘Shit,’ he gasped, breaking into sudden laughter. ‘Something really cracked on the way down, you know.’

‘I thought you wanted me to be rougher,’ she said, crossing her arms and looking unsympathetic.

‘It’s hot as hell, believe me, just—People are gonna ask questions about how I got a broken tailbone.’

‘You’ll be lucky if that’s all I break,’ she said, resuming the interrogation act. ‘Look at you, writhing beneath me. You love being overpowered by a woman. Am I going to have to chain you to a seat again?’

‘I did like that,’ he answered with a smirk, shifting beneath her. ‘Fuck, I’ve been wanting you so bad all night.’

Cassandra frowned. ‘You’re not supposed to _like_ this,’

‘I’m speaking my mind, Seeker. It doesn’t all have to be pretend.’

‘Yes it does,’ she snapped with a voice that made negotiation sound futile.

‘Why are we still playing these roles, Cassandra?’ he asked, pushing her back and sitting up.

‘Because you’re you. And I’m me.’

‘Fuck, would it be so bad?’

‘Yes. Absolutely. Are we here to talk or to fuck, Varric?’

‘Alright, alright,’ he shrugged in defeat on seeing her expression. ‘I’ll drop it. You really are fucking cracked.’

‘One more word without my express order and I’ll cut out your tongue, rogue.’

‘Oh now, _really_?’ Varric burst out laughing. ‘It’s a bit much, don’t you think, even for you. Where did you get _that_ line from?’

‘It’s in one of your books!’

‘I really need to get a better editor.’

Cassandra dispensed with the talk and brought her hand down, slapping Varric so hard his head wrenched to the side from the force.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he moaned beneath her. She backhanded him the other way, riding the buck of his responding hips. She pressed her hand down on his jaw, forcing his cheek to the stone floor and held him down as she tugged the buttons of his tunic free.

‘For a second out there,’ he moaned with his eyes closed. ‘Shit, for a second I thought they had you.’

His words broke her.

‘I don’t want to _talk_ Varric,’ she burst out, pulling back and jumping to her feet. ‘Why can’t you understand? I don’t want to _think_.’ She paced the room.

_She’s trying to feel the hard stone under her feet, worried she’d melt away._

‘I just want _this,_ whatever it is, making me forget everything, for just… Just one moment.’

‘And I just—’ but Varric broke off, and shook his head in agitation, sitting up. One frustrated grunt of anger escaped through his gritted teeth, and then all fight melted out of him. His shoulders sagged. ‘Hawke’s gone,’ he said in defeat, holding his face. ‘He’s not coming back. Ever. He’s really gone. And I’ve just got this… _hole_. Needs filling, but it can’t be. I can’t get my head around it.’

Cassandra looked down at him and then away. ‘I keep thinking; how many more are going to fall? Will I? Will you?’

They both fell into silence, until Varric broke it.

‘Still want me to make you forget it all, Seeker?’

The corners of her mouth twitched. ‘Depends, are you still a lying snake, Varric?’

_Him, born of stone and turned to sun. Her, born of sun and turned to stone. They are turning to the other in shadows and finding light. They hurt each other, only hoping it will make the goodbye easier. But it won’t._

 

***

 

_‘Stop—’_

The frantic cry cut through the night air. Trevelyan and Otranto froze at the ringing note of distress, swords crossed, strength pushed to its limit, sword arms screaming.

‘Lady Josephine,’ Otranto resorted to formalities, as the woman—hair totally strewn across her face, panting, and at wits end—wrenched two spectators out of her path.

‘What a pleasure to finally—’

But Josephine shot him a withering look that promised that if she had to endure any more formalities tonight then she’d take up a sword and kill both duellists herself. Trevelyan shrunk back as the woman marched completely past Otranto, totally careless of snubbing him, and jabbed her shaking finger at the Inquisitor.

‘What are you _doing_?’ she exploded. No subtle hiss this time. No composed face. Just pure unmade Josephine in complete enraged calamity. ‘You’re the Inquisitor! Why risk your life on something so… so _inconsequential_?’

Trevelyan didn’t even know what ‘inconsequential’ meant, but she knew Josephine. This woman really had _no_ idea. The Inquisitor had to stop everyone’s world from falling to ruin, but _Trevelyan_ had to stop _her_ world from falling to ruin, too.

‘Because I love you!’

It had just torn out of her.

Trevelyan threw her sword down on the ground, panting, completely at the mercy of her heart laid bare.

Josephine pushed her hair out of her face, and just…

Stared.

The woman paid for spinning her words, suddenly had none.

Then, almost shyly, almost like a little girl, Josephine shifted her footing and her cheeks began to glow. Not out of embarrassment this time, nor of anger.

‘You… You do?’

‘Jose,’ Trevelyan laughed. ‘Could I have made it any more obvious?’

‘But you’re…you’re the Inquisitor! And so talented—and so _young_ —and I—’

Josephine went to take a step forward, but the ebbing of her adrenaline brought on a pain from her very swollen foot that overcame her. With a cry she fell. Trevelyan lurched forward and caught her before her knees skinned the stones.

‘I would never have presumed in one million years,’ she breathed, looking up into Trevelyan’s eyes, ‘that you could feel the same for me that I have for you.’

_Josephine Motilyet. My Josephine Montilyet, loves me._

‘I’m going to carry you again now,’ Trevelyan warned. ‘It’s going to be embarrassing and I don’t care one shit.’

‘Oh, thank the Maker,‘ Josephine exclaimed in total, relinquishing relief. ‘I think it’s broken.’

As it turned out, the court’s estimations of the Inquisitor had skyrocketed at stellar speed from _climbing toddler philistine_ to _gallant romantic hero_. Apparently, there was no better way of impressing Orelsian nobles than with a reckless duel for love. Apparently, also, against all precollection, Lord Otranto wasn’t a total graceless wanker. He withdrew his marriage offer in the stead of “true love”. It was fortunate, because Josephine’s nerves had been strapped to the rack and stretched to the limit. She could barely have been capable of anything more than sitting by Leliana, with her foot up, drinking wine and laughing with old mutual friends. Not even to muster a single cross look for Trevelyan, for all the trellises and park benches and fountain swims in the world.


End file.
